Letters to Those Who Matter Most
by Lawson227
Summary: A series of letters in which Hotch reflects on various experiences in his past and how they relate to the people who matter most to him.  Spoilers ultimately through "Our Darkest Hour"  5.23
1. Letter 1: I Understand

**Title: Letters to Those Who Matter Most (1/?)**

**Author: Lawson227**

**Rating: FRT**

**Characters: Aaron Hotchner/Hotch**

**Genre: Friendship**

**Spoilers: Ultimately, through "Our Darkest Hour" (5.23)**

**Summary: A series of letters in which Hotch reflects on various experiences in his past and how they relate to the people who matter most to him. **

Everything characterwise contained herein belongs to CBS & the creative team behind Criminal Minds. No infringement is intended, etc., etc., I got nuthin'

Letter #1- I Understand

_**To use the same words is not a sufficient guarantee of understanding; one must use the same words for the same genus of inward experience; ultimately one must have one's experiences in common. **_

_**~Friedrich Nietzsche **_

Dear Elle,

I wouldn't change a thing either. I will admit, I honestly didn't understand when you first uttered those words to me, all those years ago—a lifetime, really. In my arrogance, I thought you were wrong—reacting on nothing but pure emotion, when it's emotion we have to set aside in order to do our job to the best of our ability, but I'm the one who was wrong. And I understand those words all too well now.

In a coincidence I wouldn't wish on anyone, but which perhaps, I deserved, I understand now how vulnerable being attacked in your home left you. How inescapably angry that someone so… evil rendered you utterly helpless in the one place that should have been your sanctuary—your place away from the darkness we faced every day. How they made a mockery of it. I'll be honest, when Foyet was so carefully placing each of his blows with that knife, keeping me alive, but on the brink, I had two thoughts—one, was to keep Haley and Jack safe and the other was planning how, if given the opportunity, I would kill the son of a bitch. There was no question about it—no thought of the law or proper procedure or in waiting for justice, as we're supposed to uphold it, to exert due process. All I could think was that I had to keep my family safe and I had to kill George Foyet. Put an end to this madness.

I failed.

I didn't keep my family safe—at least, not in the way I would have wished. And because I failed, Jack now has to grow up without a mother. The little comfort I can draw is knowing he'll grow up aware of how very much she loved him and that Foyet no longer exists to wreak havoc on the world even as he continues to wreak havoc on my psyche.

I understand now, why you walked away. Why those phone calls that used to set your blood pumping came to fill you with dread. They do the same to me now, but accompanying the dread is a renewed sense of resolve—if I don't continue fighting this fight, then Foyet and Lee and Garner will have won. Because there's always another Foyet,—and another Lee, another Randall Garner waiting to replace those we've vanquished.

It's what continues to drive me and brings me back, day after day, even as I question, why?

I understand now that you had to walk in order to save yourself. But I want _you_ to understand this, Elle—I fight now, not just for Jack and Haley's memory and the team and every victim, both those lost and those saved, but I fight for you.

Perhaps it's too little, too late, and perhaps you don't even need or want to hear this, but Elle, _I_ need you to know—I will _always_ have your back.

Whatever you're doing with your life, I hope it has brought you that elusive peace and some much-deserved happiness.

Yours,

Aaron


	2. Letter 2: Endearments

**Title: Letters to Those Who Matter Most (2/?)**

**Author: Lawson227**

**Rating: FRT**

**Characters: Aaron Hotchner/Hotch**

**Genre: Friendship**

**Spoilers: Ultimately, through "Our Darkest Hour" (5.23)**

**Summary: A series of letters in which Hotch reflects on various experiences in his past and how they relate to the people who matter most to him. **

Everything characterwise contained herein belongs to CBS & the creative team behind Criminal Minds. No infringement is intended, etc., etc., I got nuthin'

Letter #2- Endearments

_**It's a pleasure to share one's memories. Everything remembered is dear, endearing, touching, precious. At least the past is safe-though we didn't know it at the time. We know it now. Because it's in the past; because we have survived.**_

_**~Susan Sontag**_

You know what I think of every time I see you? I bet this will surprise you, but what I think, every single time I see you for the first time on any given day is this: you used to call me "honey." I know… I know… You're probably shocked I remember that, because it only happened a time or two, and God knows, it was a long time ago, but I do. You know what else I remember? That you also used to call me Aaron—before you took your cues from the rest of the team and retreated to the safer, more innocuous, "sir." I get it. In public, it's probably for the best. And at the time, I might have even felt a sense of relief. Decorum and all of that bureaucratic crap that ultimately doesn't matter worth a damn. But honestly, I felt relief because I didn't know how to handle it. Didn't know how to handle you.

Of course, these days, I know that you're not one to be handled. (Feel free to imagine me smiling here. As I imagine your eyebrows rising above some predictably lavish pair of eye glasses. Probably with rhinestones.) These days, too… well, these days I can bend far enough to admit that I miss your effortless use of endearments—with me that is. And I know I'm the one who asked you to stop, so I'll allow a brief interruption for your inevitable smug expression, oh, Goddess of All Things Knowable. All right then. Moving on.

I miss the endearments and the comfortable way you had of referring to me as Aaron. But as you no doubt rightly guessed, I've never been one who's much for casual _or_ endearments. Part of it is upbringing, part of it is my own reserve. The endearments in particular aren't something I've ever been comfortable with, seeing them as artifice—a mask behind which people can hide when there's something they don't want you to know.

So is that why you began using them, Penelope? Because back in the beginning, after losing your parents, when you were so… "off the rails," as you've said, they provided an easy way to keep people off balance? A way to keep the strangers at arm's length so you could assess whether or not they were worthy of trust? Whether or not they could be allowed close enough to know you?

Because I've noticed, when you first engage with someone, those endearments—you speak them readily enough, but they don't color your tone—don't quite reach your eyes. Then, the more comfortable you get with someone—the more you care—the more personalized (not to mention colorful) they become.

Except with me. I'm still "sir". Except… the emotion reaches your eyes—colors your tone. So while you've never again called me "honey," your meaning is still abundantly clear.

I hear the endearment in it. And I cherish it and it brings me far more comfort than I could have ever imagined.

Don't ever stop calling me "sir", Penelope.

Aaron


	3. Letter 3: Opposite Yet Equal

**Title: Letters to Those Who Matter Most (3/?)**

**Author: Lawson227**

**Rating: FRT**

**Characters: Aaron Hotchner/Hotch**

**Genre: Friendship**

**Spoilers: Ultimately, through "Our Darkest Hour" (5.23)**

**Summary: A series of letters in which Hotch reflects on various experiences in his past and how they relate to the people who matter most to him. **

Everything characterwise contained herein belongs to CBS & the creative team behind Criminal Minds. No infringement is intended, etc., etc., I got nuthin'

Letter #3- Opposite Yet Equal

_**A great truth is a truth whose opposite is also a truth. **_

_**~Thomas Mann**_

I honestly thought this might be one of the hardest letters for me to undertake. Primarily because there's so much to say, most of it immensely difficult to say, and that's not even taking into account the near-impossibility of finding a way to convey it in a manner that makes sense to both of us. But then again, that's been the nature of our relationship since the beginning, hasn't it, Derek?

You've always thought I was too uptight—held rigid by a slavish adherence to protocol, reinforced by a massive stick shoved up my ass. I suppose the real surprise would be that I agree. After all, it's not as if I'm not completely blind to my own foibles, especially when I have colleagues who are _more_ than willing to point them out to me. And in turn, I know you're more than aware my main criticism of you has been when you let your gut and your heart overrule what I see as reason and rational thought.

What I think you don't know, however, is how very often I've counted on that heart and that gut instinct. How many times it's served not just you, but me.

I consider that heart and instinct a ballast—the much-needed counter to my rigidity and sometimes distant approach. A measure I've often used as a base from which to make decisions. Some have been for the better, some… well, some have ended with less success. I couldn't let you be aware of that, however, because if anything ever happened, I needed to be the one to shoulder the responsibility. If something went wrong, it had to be my decisions that were called into question, had to be _me _taking the fall. Not because I didn't feel as if you weren't aware of potential consequences—I know you don't ever go into anything without weighing them (and nine times out of ten, deciding to forge ahead, regardless). But I didn't want you or any of the rest of the team to take responsibility for actions that could potentially derail your futures. Of all of us, I felt I had more options, or at the very least, was more secure. Was in a better position from which to bargain.

Or, I suppose I should just own up to the fact that I seem to have developed a spectacular martyr complex—willing to throw myself on the flaming sword, time and again, because I didn't feel as if anyone else should have to. Or probably more accurately, that I deserved to. Which is depressing as hell when you think about it, because when did I begin morphing into Jason Gideon?

I suppose, having confessed that, it stands to reason that if I can be accused of any one sin, it would have to be the sin of arrogance. I know that probably shocks you—thinking that you've got the market cornered there. (Actually, I think Dave might argue he trumps both of us.) But it _was_ arrogance to think I had to protect all of you. That I had to be the one taking responsibility for each and every action the team took. Let's be honest here—at one time or another, each of you has acted on gut and instinct and in what you felt was the best interest of a victim or the team or even some greater whole. You all did what you thought was right, the only thing you could do in that moment, consequences be damned.

But my even more grievous sin of arrogance goes so beyond that, it's almost mind-boggling when I think of it. How could I have ever imagined that I'd never succumb to that level of emotion? Not just that I couldn't, but that I had the strength and discipline to not fall victim to the impulse. That I could rise above it. Because if I allowed gut instinct to supersede thought and reason and years of training and sacrifice, then I wouldn't be fit to lead this team.

What a laughable notion that is now, right? And how the tables were ultimately so thoroughly turned on both of us. Over the years, I've watched as that natural cynicism and caution that was always as much a part of your nature as your heart and gut instinct evolved into the skills of reason and questioning that make an exceptional leader. I also saw how hard it was for you when the rest of the team felt as if you were putting the job ahead of the person. Hard to experience, wasn't it? Knowing exactly what they're feeling and thinking—experiencing those fissure cracks of betrayal you worry you'll never be able to fully repair. Understanding that it's a risk that must be taken, time and again, even if it keeps you awake at night, concerned that _this_ is the one you won't be able to fix. Praying it's worth it if, in the end, the case is solved.

I think you've figured it out. So much better than I did, really, because you weren't afraid of emotion—didn't feel as if you had to push it completely to the side—but rather, allowed it to have its place. And when time came for you to step in and be the leader they needed, you were more than ready. You did it without question or hesitation. And once again, you served as that all-important ballast, this time providing the steady reason and sound judgment while I allowed fury and emotion and ultimately heartbreak to rule my existence and drive my decisions, for better or worse. You were the rock and for that, I will always be profoundly grateful.

In the end, both of us came out of those experiences better able to understand each other and with a rare level of trust.

You know, Derek, for a long while now, I've not considered you in any way a subordinate, but very much an equal. You are the colleague I trust with… well, pretty much everything. I hope, too, that after all we've been through, all we've overcome, we've also come to a place where we can finally call each other… friend.

Yours,

Aaron


	4. Letter 4: Mirror Image

**Title: Letters to Those Who Matter Most (4/?)**

**Author: Lawson227**

**Rating: FRT**

**Characters: Aaron Hotchner/Hotch**

**Genre: Friendship**

**Spoilers: Ultimately, through "Our Darkest Hour" (5.23)**

**Summary: A series of letters in which Hotch reflects on various experiences in his past and how they relate to the people who matter most to him. **

Everything characterwise contained herein belongs to CBS & the creative team behind Criminal Minds. No infringement is intended, etc., etc., I got nuthin'

Letter #4- Mirror Image

_**Conscience is the mirror of our souls, which represents the errors of our lives in their full shape.**_

_**~George Bancroft**_

My dear friend JJ—

I see it, you know. Not that I think you go to any great lengths to hide it. As private as your nature is, this is the one thing about which you've been as open and unguarded as I've ever known you to be. On that fateful October day, a child wasn't simply born, but a new ferocity and an ongoing war within yourself. One with which I'm intimately familiar.

You let yourself express it to me because I'm the only other person on the team who can understand the distinctive push-pull you experience with every new case. How it hurts that much more when it involves children and parents.—how the knife digs just that little bit deeper when it's a danger that could potentially strike close to home. And it breaks my heart a little more every time I have to tell you that we have to put the job first. That we have to put the needs of the many ahead of our own personal desires. Because I see how the ferocity flares in your eyes, that base instinct to protect, only to be reined in by the demands of the job and your subservience to it.

On the one hand, you're fortunate to have in Will a partner who not only understands the physical, mental, and emotional demands of the job, but who was willing to put himself in the position to support you through your journey, whatever form it took. Who understand you _had_ to do this job in order to make the world a better place for Henry. But I see the battles you fight with yourself

I probably shouldn't say this—have no real business saying this—but I'm going to anyway.

Run, JJ. Pick up Will and Henry and run like hell to protect that part of you that's about your family and yourself. Allow that ferocity to find its natural outlet in a way that doesn't require you to draw a gun in order to protect your child and relationship. That's about nothing more than an argument over curfews and messes left behind and PTA meetings and whose turn it is to unload the dishwasher.

It's the mundane I miss most, you know? The ordinary that we learn to cherish only during those rare opportunities we get to experience it or worse, if it's no longer in our possession.

Yes, I have my son, but the mundane and ordinary of life with him falls under the aegis of extraordinary these days and the pity of it is, I can't deny that it's all of my doing.

I don't regret the choices I made. I can't and live with myself. And while they've brought a tremendous amount of pain, I have to stand fast in my belief they were the right ones. Every time I go home to Jack, knowing I've removed another danger, another blight that could potentially touch him, I remind myself it _was_ the right choice. But JJ, forgive me for saying I don't think that sort of choice is the right one for you. It's not that you're any less strong than any of the rest of the team, but the simple fact is, you're different. You and I, as much as we're the same, in drive, in determination, in the pursuit to do what's inalienably _right_, we're in truth, very different. What you need to do, the battles you need to fight, perhaps need to be a bit closer to home.

I have no idea where this letter is going to find you on your journey—maybe you'll have already figured out what it is you need. Maybe you don't need me butting in, in any way, because you've got it under control.

I hope so. The last thing I'd ever want for you is to end up… well, like me.

You deserve better.

Always,

Aaron


	5. Letter 5: Thank You

**Title: Letters to Those Who Matter Most (5/8)**

**Author: Lawson227**

**Rating: FRT**

**Characters: Aaron Hotchner/Hotch**

**Genre: Friendship**

**Spoilers: Ultimately, through "Our Darkest Hour" (5.23)**

**Summary: A series of letters in which Hotch reflects on various experiences in his past and how they relate to the people who matter most to him. **

Everything characterwise contained herein belongs to CBS & the creative team behind Criminal Minds. No infringement is intended, etc., etc., I got nuthin'

Letter #5: Thank You

_**There is not one big cosmic meaning for all, there is only the meaning we each give to our life, an individual meaning, an individual plot, like an individual novel, a book for each person.**_

_**~Anaïs Nin**_

Dave,

Yours is the letter that I wasn't at all certain how best to approach. After all, you're the writer—and like the Mercury 7 astronauts, one of the originals of this team. You know what it takes to get here, what it takes to succeed, and most importantly, you know how to cut through all the extraneous bullshit. Especially mine. So with that said, I'll keep this as simple and to the point as possible—

Thank you.

Thank you for everything.

Thank you for returning when you did. Thank you for stepping in and being everything Jason Gideon wasn't. Not for my sake, but for theirs. They were so damned lost and bewildered and angry—frankly, so was I. At least angry. But that's not a matter for this letter beyond expressing my thanks to you for being so much more than just a legend to them. You were willing to become a real person to them. You became their friend, their mentor, a steadying force yet one who didn't hesitate to challenge or confront or who shied away from making them face their demons. After all, your return to the BAU was completely predicated on that very basis. You yourself were trapped and unable to move forward until you'd chased down and defeated the ghosts of your past. It's a valuable lesson, Dave—and while you might not have initially wanted their help, don't ever imagine that the fact that you ultimately accepted it didn't have a profound effect on them, because it did. In ways that resonate to this day.

Thank you, too, for being there. For me. For being that steadying force when my life was falling to pieces around me. As absorbed as I was in the hell that my life became, a small part of me was still aware of what was going on outside my little sphere of existence. And I know that's why I can ask you what I'm about to ask.

Take care of them, Dave. Wherever their careers take them, wherever their _lives_ take them, I'm going to ask that you help in watching over them. If, as it's been suggested, I'm the glue that holds this team together, you're the binding—those carefully placed, incredibly strong stitches that provide reinforcement. That hold the cover the rest of the world sees firmly in place and keeps the pages from scattering to the winds, destroying the narrative.

You know more than any of us about the ups and downs of this job. You know about leaving and coming back—about the demons from unfinished business and how they can eat away at you, no matter how far you run, how much distance you put between your former life and your new one. Because you know all this and because you're damned good at what you do, I need you to keep an eye on them—make sure they don't get caught beneath the destructive wheels that can become the runaway train of this job.

I ask this not simply because you're my colleague and they're my responsibility—I ask because other than Jack and Sean, you and those extraordinary individuals we share so much of our lives with, are my family.

I'm terrible at outward displays of emotion—but for this, I can lower every guard and shield and ask with everything I am…

Please, take care of them.

Your friend, as always,

Aaron


	6. Letter 6: Balance and Clarity

**Title: Letters to Those Who Matter Most (6/8)**

**Author: Lawson227**

**Rating: FRT**

**Characters: Aaron Hotchner/Hotch**

**Genre: Friendship**

**Spoilers: Ultimately, through "Our Darkest Hour" (5.23)**

**Summary: A series of letters in which Hotch reflects on various experiences in his past and how they relate to the people who matter most to him. **

Everything characterwise contained herein belongs to CBS & the creative team behind Criminal Minds. No infringement is intended, etc., etc., I got nuthin'

Letter #6: Balance and Clarity

_**You have weighed the stars in the balance, and grasped the skies in a span: / Take, if you must have answer, the word of a common man.**_

_**~G.K. Chesterton**_

Dear Emily and Spencer,

First things first—you need to be reading this letter together.

Now—I suppose I need to explain why I'm writing this to the two of you rather than each of you individually—I need you to understand that it has nothing to do with my regard for you as individuals. As a matter of fact, it's because I understand you so well as individuals that I chose to address the two of you within the context of a single letter.

Spencer, you don't exactly have a great track record with receiving letters, do you? While we never discussed it, I don't want you to think I didn't understand what your being the sole recipient of Gideon's letter did to you. He was understandably in a bad place, but he put you in an untenable position. Having to serve as a Father Confessor, the bearer of his sins, when you yourself were struggling to maintain a precarious balance. Unable to see what it was he was really trying to say because you were so overwhelmed by the fact that he'd not only left, but he'd left you with a tremendous burden of responsibility.

And Emily, you with your habit of compartmentalizing. If you were to receive a letter addressed solely to you, you'd read it, digest it, worry it like a dog with a bone, tucked away in some dark corner, allowing the questions to fester, trying desperately to read between the lines when really, it's all laid out for you to read, no subterfuge or mystery to be discovered.

That's why this letter is addressed to both of you—whether it's something of which you're consciously aware or not (I suspect not), you provide each other with a much needed sense of balance. Out of all of the team, the two of you are the most alike. Coming on to the team as outsiders, of sorts—set apart by your unique attributes and the circumstances of your unorthodox upbringings. In so many ways, it's made you both the toughest of the team—yet conversely, the most fragile. While everyone on the team is undeniably special, the two of you possess something brilliant and quicksilver. Even in the midst of some of the most horrific cases we've ever worked, I've still been able to marvel at the workings of your minds. Even more, I've enjoyed the quiet moments, watching the two of you play cards or chess—debating the merits of a fairy tale or a novel or the statistical probabilities of a poker hand.

The two of you, in so many ways have proved the most resilient, which is why I worry that you're the ones on whom the job takes the subtlest and consequently, the most devastating tolls.

I consider it a gift to have the two of you on my team. Your empathy, your toughness in the face of adversity, your brilliance and courage under fire, both real and metaphorical, your unshakable sense of honor, is a testament to you both. You're a credit to the Bureau, to the BAU, and to this team.

I'll close by saying this: Spencer, slow down and listen to Emily when you read this letter. Let her help you with the interpretations and allow her to be the calm voice of reason when that brain of yours goes into overdrive and charges headfirst into some stormy maelstrom of emotion that you'll try to logic away.

Emily, let Spencer show you that what I'm writing is nothing more and nothing less than what's on this page. I promised at the outset, there would be no hidden agendas and reading over what I've written, I think I've succeeded. Finally, don't be afraid to lean on each other and on the other members of your team.

Not every battle must be fought alone. (And I thought Derek was the one most in need of that lesson. Actually, scratch that—I thought _I_ was the one most in need of that lesson.)

Take care of each other,

Hotch


	7. Letter 7: Ghosts of the Past

**Title: Letters to Those Who Matter Most (7/8)**

**Author: Lawson227**

**Rating: FRT**

**Characters: Aaron Hotchner/Hotch**

**Genre: Friendship**

**Spoilers: Ultimately, through "Our Darkest Hour" (5.23)**

**Summary: A series of letters in which Hotch reflects on various experiences in his past and how they relate to the people who matter most to him. **

Everything characterwise contained herein belongs to CBS & the creative team behind Criminal Minds. No infringement is intended, etc., etc., I got nuthin'

Letter #7: Ghosts of the Past

_**If I read the temper of our people correctly, we now realize as we have never realized before our interdependence on each other; that we can not merely take but we must give as well…**_

_**~Franklin Delano Roosevelt**_

Jason—

How I wish I didn't have to write this letter. But I must. If I didn't, then I'd be leaving the story incomplete—an integral chapter missing. And I refuse to do as you did—to turn my back on the task at hand. I don't care if it's unfair. I don't care that time and again you did face the devil and live to dance another day. When it comes down to it, at what was possibly the most important moment, you turned your back on those who should have mattered the most.

Oh, I know what you're thinking—how could anyone understand what you'd been through? You had a right, after all you'd endured. That Elle, herself had done the same thing, turned and walked away when it became too much and hadn't you, after all you'd gone through, all you'd done, earned the same right?

No.

I'm sorry, but you hadn't. And I would stand on equal ground, toe-to-toe, look you in the eye and say that to you, because now, to my everlasting heartache, I _can_. Elle wasn't a leader to this team. She was a teammate—a friend. She wasn't a father figure. She wasn't the one whom the others wanted to emulate, to please, to earn praise from, however faint or obscurely given. And let's be perfectly honest, when it came down to it, she had the guts to face me, to not back down from her decision, and in her way, to say she still cared. That she cared, almost too much. She just couldn't do it any more.

You wanted to leave? It was too much for you? Fine. You could have done that and no one—least of all anyone on this team—would have begrudged you. However, you owed them more than to turn tail and run like some thief, stack of photographs in hand. Owed them more than a few pages of tortured confession. And as for the manner in which it was delivered? That was cowardice, pure and simple. You knew he'd be the one to come looking for you, fine—but to address that letter solely to him? With his history and what he'd been struggling with since his kidnapping? He worshipped you, Jason—you were the father he'd never had and yet… however good your intentions, whatever it was you felt the need to explain to him within those pages, the end result is that you left him feeling as if he didn't matter. You left _all_ of them feeling as if they didn't matter—as if they were nothing more than commodities to be disposed of for a new life without a single backwards glance.

What was it? Did you fear the condemnation you might see in their eyes if you stood before them and told them the job had finally beat you? You're a bigger fool than I imagined if you thought they could ever believe that.

Were you afraid to admit that you were human, Jason? Was that it?

Morgan once expressed surprise that we were able to succeed without you. That we were able to go on, perhaps even better than before.

That didn't come as any great surprise to me. I suppose for that I should thank you for leaving. Your doing so allowed them the room to spread their wings and take flight. They're remarkable people, Jason, and I almost pity you for all you missed.

Almost.

What I can't do, however, is forgive.

But then, I wonder if you can even forgive yourself?

Aaron


	8. Letter 8: Love

**Title: Letters to Those Who Matter Most (7/8)**

**Author: Lawson227**

**Rating: FRT**

**Characters: Aaron Hotchner/Hotch**

**Genre: Friendship**

**Spoilers: Ultimately, through "Our Darkest Hour" (5.23)**

**Summary: A series of letters in which Hotch reflects on various experiences in his past and how they relate to the people who matter most to him. **

Everything characterwise contained herein belongs to CBS & the creative team behind Criminal Minds. No infringement is intended, etc., etc., I got nuthin'

Letter #8: Love

"_**There are four questions of value in life... What is sacred? Of what is the spirit made? What is worth living for, and what is worth dying for? The answer to each is the same. Only love."**_

_**~Jeremy Leven (Don Juan DeMarco)**_

_My dear Jack,_

_What you've got before you is the sum total of what I see as my life. All the chapters—the highs and the lows. Outside of your Aunt Jessie and Uncle Sean and of course, your mom, the people these letters are addressed to are the ones with whom I've shared the most. The ones I've cared about the most. And they're the ones who can fill in the blanks for you—answer any questions you might have—provide insight into that window of time in which all our lives were so irrevocably changed. _

_I hope, too, that these letters provide a measure of insight for you—not just into their recipients, but into me. Why I chose to spend so much time with them, what I valued in them. And even where our roads might have diverged. Why my loyalty and trust might have faltered and even have turned to anger. Because when it comes down to it, I want you to see all of me, Jack. See me as I am, warts and all so that you can decide for yourself if all the sacrifices were worth it, in the end._

_It's ironic, I suppose. As parents, we always want our children to see us at our best. To see us as infallible, as heroes who come swooping in to save the day, to right every wrong, and fix the hurts. It's an admirable pursuit, I suppose, but not one I'm entirely comfortable with, probably because I actually did have to be the hero—even if I never much felt like one. I just did what needed to be done. But because I inadvertently became that hero to so many others, all I've ever wanted to be with you, is simply Dad. You know, of course, by now, that I would kill to protect you—but even so, maybe especially so, I could never allow myself to believe that I could ever right every wrong. I could never allow myself to lie to you like that. And while I hurt when you hurt, I would rather teach you how to protect yourself, to fix the hurts for yourself, or if they're beyond repair, to learn how to move on and understand that no matter how devastating the pain, you can survive. You just have to find a reason. _

_You were mine._

_So here's the thing—when you get these, whenever that might be, I want you to read all of them, because first and foremost, they're intended for you. And then, if you wish, you can pass them on to their intended recipients. It's up to you, of course, but I do think they need to know, too, how I felt about them. _

_I made a promise to your mom—a long time ago—that I'd be open with you. Make sure you knew how much I cared. How much I feel and how much I love you, no matter what. I promised I'd let you see me laugh and I've tried my best to honor those promises. But at the same time, because of the nature of the job, I haven't been able to be so open with the others. My emotional reserves were saved for you and I know they understood that. However, I think they deserve to know how I feel, for better or worse. But I'll leave that choice up to you._

_I love you always, Jack. Being your father has been the greatest gift of my life._

_Dad_

Aaron carefully folded the stiff cream-colored sheet of stationary once, then again, before slipping it into its envelope. After carefully inscribing Jack's name on the front, he placed it on top of a stack of matching envelopes, all with neatly inscribed names on their fronts. He rapped the eight letters sharply on the desk, lining them up, and placed them inside a manila envelope.

Turning it over, he carefully wrote, _For Jack Hotchner_ then set the pen aside. Tomorrow, he'd deliver the package to its designated guardian for safekeeping, then it would be out of his hands. It was the deal they'd made. He'd write the letters, but the guardian would decide upon the delivery time. The one caveat was that it wouldn't be prior to Jack's eighteenth birthday. So he had at least a thirteen year grace period. Who knew what might change in that time period, but that hardly mattered. It was the last several years that had had the most impact on who he'd become, for better or worse. When he was better able to understand all the nuances, Jack definitely deserved to know the stories of the people and events that had had such a profound effect on shaping their lives.

"Daddy?"

He spun his chair to face the door where Jack stood, rubbing sleepy eyes. "Hey, what are you doing up? Couldn't sleep?"

Still rubbing at his eyes, Jack nodded.

"Come here." Holding out his arms, Aaron waited for his son to climb in, nestling his head against his shoulder, small hand clutching at his shirtsleeve, as if afraid to let go. The gesture always made his heart ache and caused him to hold onto Jack, just a little tighter. Reassure him he wasn't going anywhere and hope to hell he wasn't making that silent promise in vain.

"You working on a case?"

"Nope. Just writing some letters."

He smiled as he watched Jack's nose wrinkle. "Can't you just email?"

"Not really. Not for this. This is… special."

"Is it to Santa Claus?" The five-year-old's voice was so hopeful, Aaron couldn't help but laugh, surprised at how much easier it was coming. Like each spontaneous laugh loosened something deep within him, leaving him more open and free.

"No, it's not Santa. We only write Santa in December, remember?"

"But you always say it's better to get a head start on things, right?"

"God help me if you decide to become a lawyer." Aaron stood, cradling Jack close. "I think it's time to get you back to bed, young man."

"'Kay." As they left the office, Aaron could hear Jack's sleepy voice murmuring, "Don' wanna be a lawyer. Wanna be an astronaut. Or a superhero."

He smiled against his son's silky hair. "Well, if you want to be an astronaut or a superhero, you're going to have to eat your broccoli."

"Yech."

"Sorry, kiddo, those are the rules."

"Are you sure?"

"Reasonably."

He laid Jack down in his bed amidst a few unintelligible grumbles, presumably about the evils of broccoli. He pulled up the covers, made sure Mr. Bear was close at hand, and brushed a final kiss against Jack's forehead.

"I love you, Daddy."

He paused, his hand on the lightswitch. "Love you, too, Jack. More than anything."

"Then you won't make me eat broccoli?"

Aaron laughed again, feeling another little part of him opening up. "Seriously, you should consider the law."

But Jack was already asleep. Aaron stood there for a long time, watching his son sleep before returning to his office. Sitting down, he picked the manila envelope up, thoughtfully turning it over in his hands, weighing its contents. Tracing Jack's name across the front, he took a deep breath and placed the envelope in his briefcase, closing it with a decisive snap. It was terrifying to think of Jack reading these. To allow him to see so much. But terrifying as it was, Aaron would rather his son knew his father for the man he was.

These letters—they were his legacy.

**AUTHORS NOTE: This is the last of the letters, but it's not the end of the story. There is an epilogue piece that will wrap things up, hopefully in a satisfactory manner. **


	9. Epilogue: Starting Over

**Title: Letters to Those Who Matter Most (Epilogue)**

**Author: Lawson227**

**Rating: FRT**

**Characters: Aaron Hotchner/Hotch**

**Genre: Friendship**

**Spoilers: Presumed through "Our Darkest Hour" (5.23)**

**Summary: A series of letters in which Hotch reflects on various experiences in his past and how they relate to the people who matter most to him. **

Everything characterwise contained herein belongs to CBS & the creative team behind Criminal Minds. No infringement is intended, etc., etc., I got nuthin'

Epilogue: Starting Over

_**Now this is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.**_

_**~Winston Churchill**_

The young man sat quietly, mouth set in a familiar straight line as he read through the stack of letters, then once again, as if committing them to memory. It was entirely possible he was. He was almost preternaturally disciplined—a trait clearly inherited from his father.

Finally satisfied, he returned the letters to their envelopes, stacking them neatly before pushing away from the table. Rolling his shoulders, he wandered over to the big window. Away from the fluorescent lighting bathing the rest of the room, shadows played across his face, creating an eerie melding of past and present.

"Any questions?"

"Only two."

"All right."

"Why you?"

She felt a smile play about her lips. So like his father in that he went for the most direct question in the bluntest possible manner. So little use for politics. He'd only play at them in as much as it would allow him to do his job without what he saw as unnecessary interference.

"Because," Erin answered easily, having prepared for this question for many years now. "While there have been many times Aaron and I haven't liked each other or even respected each other, the one thing that has remained an absolute is that we've always understood each other." She pushed slowly away from the round table, feeling a multitude twinges and aches settling into various joints as she stood. She joined Jack at the window overlooking the bullpen, typically busy with a workday bustle. "Both parents, both understanding the unique pressures of the job. And I was also the one person who had no emotional stake in this venture."

"Meaning he didn't write you a letter."

She laughed quietly. "He had no need to. Like I said, we've always understood each other. He could trust I would make the most objective judgment call on when it was time to give it to you. Believe it or not, I think it brought him a measure of peace." Bracing her hands on the sill, she leaned forward, studying him from the corner of her eye. "You said two questions."

The corner of his mouth quirked up, once again mimicking his father's expression, down to the dimple that briefly flashed. "I'm guessing you know what it is."

"Why now?"

"Yeah."

"I'm sure you can answer that for yourself."

Turning her back to the bullpen, she leaned against the window and studied him more fully noting that the startling resemblance to his father did not extend to his wardrobe. Rather, he dressed more like an amalgam of Agent Morgan and Dr. Reid, faded jeans and a button-down Oxford with the sleeves rolled to the elbows worn open over a t-shirt, allowing a clear view of the I.D. clipped to his belt and easy access to the gun worn at his hip. And if she was a betting woman, she would lay folding money that a second, smaller gun resided in a holster strapped to his ankle. Clothing notwithstanding, in so many ways, the apple did not fall at all far from the tree.

He narrowed his eyes, two bright spots of color appearing high on his cheeks although his voice remained steady as he replied, "Well, I have to admit, the timing's more than a little coincidental, what with my recent transfer into the BAU."

"There is that, yes." She fought a smile as she asked, "How is it, by the way, working with your father?"

She could seem him fighting his own smile. "I'm grateful for the opportunity to work with him—"

At his slight pause she interjected, "But…"

He finally gave up and laughed outright. "But let's just say it's a good thing he's in your old job, ma'am, as Section Chief and overseeing all the units. Gives us a bit of necessary space."

"Oh, what I wouldn't give to see the two of you out in the field together. It would completely serve Aaron Hotchner right."

Their shared laughter rang through the room and faded away into a comfortable silence. Another subtle difference from Aaron, she noted—Jack's silences came across as more contemplative than intense and brooding. Aaron's silences had a way of leaving anyone subjected to them uneasy, wondering when the attack would come. Undeniably certain they would come. Jack's easy silences on the other hand were almost indecently deceptive. She had a feeling that the younger Hotchner would prove to be an even more dangerous adversary than his father. And left her breathing a silent sigh of relief that she was far enough up the chain of command that she wouldn't have to deal directly with him.

"To more fully answer your question, Jack, yes, it had a great deal to do with your transfer into the BAU. Your father had given me the leeway to give you these letters as far back as your eighteenth birthday, but something held me back at that time."

"Did you know?" he asked, genuine curiosity written across his features.

"I suspected, yes, that you might choose the FBI, at the very least. And if you chose the FBI, then there was a high probability you would follow your father's path into the BAU."

"It's not just because of Dad, you know." A defensive note crept into his tone, cementing her suspicions that he'd put up with a fair amount of whispered gossip and probably some outright hostility and accusations of nepotism over his rapid ascent through the ranks into one of the FBI's most elite units. To have made the BAU by twenty-six was close to unheard of. But she knew, because she made it her business to know, that he'd worked twice as hard as anyone else and had honed his natural gifts to a point where denying him entry to the BAU would be the equivalent of cutting one's nose off to spite one's face.

"Jack, above all, you're a seeker. Always searching for the underlying _why_. Not only is it deeply embedded in your inherent nature, it's reinforced by your background and history. The real shock, I think, would have been if you hadn't joined the BAU." She took a deep breath. "But because you have—because you're still so young and maybe most importantly, because you'll be working, however peripherally, with your father, I think it's important for you to understand what the people you work with may come to mean to you. What your father's team meant to him."

Quiet blanketed the room once again as Jack lapsed into thought. Erin turned back to the bullpen, observing Morgan, now the undisputed Chief of the lead unit, speaking with Penelope Garcia, elevated to status of Chief Technical Analyst, still working cases, but also responsible for recruiting and overseeing her own team of legally sanctioned hackers.

"You chose today, too, because of the ceremony, didn't you?"

Erin continued staring down into the bullpen, watching Garcia's face light up as she caught sight of Spencer Reid and Emily Prentiss walking into the unit together. The three of them exchanged exuberant hugs before Spencer and Emily moved on to greet Derek and Garcia hugged a dapper David Rossi, his hair gone a steely gray, but otherwise very little changed from his days with the unit. _Very_ little changed as he clearly said something thoroughly inappropriate to Prentiss, judging by the rolling of her eyes and the well-placed elbow to his ribs.

Irritating man. But irritating as he was, she had to admit his determination in pursuing the formation of a dedicated behavioral analysis unit, the success the unit had enjoyed in the ensuing years—it deserved recognition. Recognition he would be receiving later this morning as their wing of the building was officially dedicated as the David Rossi Annex.

"It seemed as good a time as any, should you decide to pass the letters on." There were a few notable exceptions, of course, but by and large, the old team was there, clustered together in one place, Aaron included as he descended from his office, greeting Rossi and Reid and Prentiss with wide smiles and unrestrained hugs. The man remained generally taciturn and stoic, but for these people, he had come a long way. Such a long way, she wasn't certain the letters were even necessary any longer. But that wasn't her call to make. Her part in this was now officially over.

"I think they know." Jack had turned to watch the action in the bullpen, his fingers tapping against the sill. "I mean, there's got to be a reason that Morgan and Garcia are still here—that Emily and Spencer have remained in the area, teaching at the Academy, and dropping everything at a moment's notice to consult if Dad or Morgan needs them. Even Dave stops by every month or so to have dinner with Dad. And you know, he still gets a Christmas card every year from JJ and even from Elle."

"He inspires tremendous loyalty. Always did." A long sigh escaped before she could stop it, draped in a wistfulness she knew wouldn't escape Jack's sharp notice. "It used to piss me off so much."

"You do, too, ma'am." Jack's touch was light against her shoulder. "If you didn't, he wouldn't have asked this of you. And I know I'll never forget it."

"Thank you, Jack." Her hand rose, almost of its own volition, to briefly squeeze his. Clearing her throat, she nodded to the group now gathered in the kitchen area, comfortably chatting and catching up while more than a few of the current agents shot them sidelong glances and exchanged awed whispers. The best the BAU had ever fielded—every team since then striving to live up to their legacy. And now, a second generation had invaded their ranks, preparing to lead the charge.

"Perhaps you should go join them."

"This is their time." His reflection shook its head. "I'll see them at the ceremony."

…..

A live-wire restlessness had gripped Aaron most of the day, leaving him twitchy and easily distracted. He'd early on identified the source—feeling that given the unique circumstances, today might be the day Erin would finally opt to give Jack the letters. And after he'd noticed them deep in discussion in the round table room, his irritability and lack of concentration had increased to the point where Morgan had teased him about advancing age and decreased mental acuity, prompting him to remind Morgan that his weapons skills hadn't decreased in the slightest, despite being out of the field for several years now and would he care to find out?

The arrival of Dave and Spencer and Emily had helped some—while he saw most of his former team with some regularity, frequent dinners with Dave or weekend brunches with Spencer and Emily at their place in Georgetown, and of course, still working with Morgan and Garcia, he was still hard-pressed to recall the last time they'd all been together in the same place.

Which once again begged the question… would she?

He couldn't ask her. That would be violating the terms of the agreement they'd made so many years ago, the agreement he'd insisted on, if only for his peace of mind. Admittedly, the only time he'd been tempted to ask in the past was right around Jack's eighteenth birthday. He'd been so certain she'd hand them over then, most likely grateful to be relieved of her burden. But no. She chosen to hold on to them a while longer and for the first time, he'd found himself regretting that the woman had never become a field agent and profiler because when she wanted, she had a decent grasp on people's psyches. She'd known both that it was too soon for Jack to receive those letters and somehow, he didn't know how, she'd known he'd end up here.

"Hey, Dad."

He turned his head a few degrees, sparing Jack a half-smile. No big demonstrations in public—not that either of them would have been so inclined, but every little bit helped keep the scorekeepers at bay. Neither of them were under any illusions that Jack, in particular, was under a microscope and that there were competitors at every turn gunning for him to make even the smallest mistake. It awed Aaron, more than a little, that Jack had entered voluntarily into this. It was one thing to have joined the FBI, even if it made him twitch, feeling that Hailey was hovering somewhere nearby, skewering him with her intense disapproval,, but to have opted for the BAU? To have pursued it with such single-minded purpose? It was like wandering straight into the wide-open jaws of a very hungry lion. In the Coliseum. With a lot of bloodthirsty Romans just waiting for him to make that one fatal error.

"It's taken care of. The ones who are here have theirs. I'll take care of mailing the others."

For a moment—just a moment—he closed his eyes and allowed himself to breathe. "All of them?"

Beside him, Jack did nothing more than tense slightly—his breathing rate increasing only fractionally.

"Which one?"

"Gideon."

He nodded, feeling a frisson of disappointment snaking down his spine.

"Dad, I know you've been pissed at him for a long time. It doesn't take a profiler to see how tense you got any time his name was mentioned. And then when I joined the FBI, hell, you know how the rumor mill works. I heard everything—good and bad. So I talked to Morgan and Garcia and Spencer and Emily. Had Garcia do some digging for me that the others don't even know about."

"And?"

"He's completely isolated and still completed convinced he did the only thing he could do. The noble thing. That letter from you—all it would do is add to the martyr complex he's got going. Continue to convince him that he was completely, inalienably right in his actions. Think about it, Dad—he's living in a hell of his own making where he's essentially become that which he used to hunt. And worse still, he's aware of it. Karma, she's a massive bitch, you know?"

Aaron nodded slowly. "I have to be honest, though, Jack. For years I harbored this fantasy of kicking the shit out of him. That letter was the closest thing I had."

"Understood. And I can't say that I blame you."

They stood side by side in a comfortable silence as more bodies crowded into the foyer, the director of the FBI standing beside the doors to the unit, fabric shrouding the glass in preparation for the announcement and subsequent unveiling. Standing beside the director was Assistant Director Strauss who met Aaron's gaze with a thoughtful one of her own, an entire conversation passing between them, even as she nodded and responded with the appropriate comments and polite laughter to their long-winded boss's painful jokes. Aaron knew they were painful because he was all too often in her position.

To her other side stood David who tapped his breast pocket with a wink while Spencer, Emily, Morgan, and Garcia gathered close around him and Jack, a protective circle, impervious to the gazes both curious and envious.

"You know, Boss, all these years and you're still a pain in my ass."

"How's that, Derek?"

"Makin' all of us tear up like that, right before we got to show up in public. You should've heard Prentiss and Garcia bitching about their mascara."

"Blame the kid," Aaron muttered as the director launched into his patented Very Special Occasion speech. "He's the one who decided to give them to you now instead of waiting until we went to dinner tonight."

"And have you sliding me the Aaron Hotchner curious stare the entire ceremony, wondering if I'd played mailman?" Jack muttered sotto voce. "I don't think so."

"I would have done no such thing."

"Dad, I'm flashing back to my eighteenth birthday and my college graduation and my graduation from the Academy and so much of it makes sense now."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

Prentiss hissed an impatient "_Shh_!" in his ear while Jack uttered an muffled _"ouch!"_ as Penelope latched onto his earlobe and twisted. Not certain she wouldn't do the same to him, Aaron took a nervous step back, exchanging grins with Morgan and Spencer, both of whom, he noted, were keeping clear of the women. Bastards. They could have at least stepped up for moral support.

Just as the director was wrapping up his speech, thanking Dave for his many years of service, his extraordinary vision and dedication and sheer brilliance, Jack whispered, "How much longer before Dave gets impatient, decks him, and says 'let's finish this at a bar?'"

"Odds are one more sentence with the word 'brilliant' in it ought to do it." Spencer replied absent-mindedly, prompting Aaron to grin. He'd been thinking more or less the same thing himself.

Applause filled the foyer as Dave pulled the cord dropping the fabric and revealing the **DAVID ROSSI ANNEX** freshly etched into the glass.

"Dad, about my letter?"

His heart stuttering in an irregular tattoo, Aaron turned and met Jack's gaze directly, ready to hear… hell, he didn't know what he was ready to hear. Part of him had hoped that it would be one of those tacit things between them. Acknowledged, understood, but never discussed. But in that respect, Jack was very much his mother's son. Unafraid of his feelings—unafraid of articulating them and far better able to do so at twenty-six than Aaron ever had been.

"Yes?"

"Being your son's been my greatest gift, too, you know. You never, ever fell short for me."

Aaron swallowed hard, an unaccustomed heat prickling at the backs of his eyes. "Even when I got you that Volvo station wagon for your first car instead of the Camaro?"

"Hey, never said you were perfect." A full-out smile graced his son's face.

Suddenly, Aaron was gripped with the need to tell Jack something massively important—something he'd neglected to include in his letter. How could he have not realized—

"Don't ever lose that, Jack."

"Lose what?"

"Lose the ability to see the good in things. To laugh at the absurd. To be open with who you are." He shook his head, laughing at himself after all these years. "I think that's maybe that's why I wrote those letters. Why I left them for you to read first, then deliver."

"Why's that?"

"Because these people—" He looked around at the group clustered more fully around them now that the ceremony had concluded. "I knew that whatever you chose to do with your life, they'd help you remember all of those things. They'd help you remember to value what's important. Like they helped me."

You think I didn't already know all of that, Dad?" Jack's voice was gentle and laced with more than a little humor." It's like I told Director Strauss—I didn't join the BAU just because of you. I joined because I know it's a job I'll be good at—that, if I'm not sounding too egotistical—I was meant to do. And I joined because of this." He gestured at the team. Aaron's team.

"They saved your life—more than once. Literally and figuratively. I want something like that, Dad. I want my life to mean something."

Aaron stood, helpless… torn between intense pride. And intense fear. That maybe he'd done the wrong thing by staying with the BAU all those years ago. "It cost a lot, too, Jack. Including your mom. I don't want you to have any false illusions about the pitfalls this job can bring."

"Dad, come on. Do you really think they'd let me?"

Hotch met all their gazes in turn, including Erin, who hovered around the fringes, clearly concerned, clearly wanting to know that yes, she'd picked the right moment. Done the right thing. In each gaze he read reassurance and the quiet strength he'd depended upon so often in the past. He knew that now, even though they were no longer a team in the strictest sense, they were a team in the _truest_ sense. They'd band together and support him as he gave way to Jack. Allowed him to follow his own path, make his own mistakes. They'd be there to prop him up during the dark moments, of which he had no doubt there would be. And even more importantly, they'd be there to celebrate the victories, both big and small.

They would always be there for him—these people who mattered the most.

"No, Jack. I guess they wouldn't."

…**..**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Obviously, not knowing exactly what's going to happen to JJ, I kept her future vague. I suspect they're not killing her off (I hope not!), so I'm working under the presumption that she's alive, living away from D.C., and for the purposes of this story, unable to get away for the dedication. As for the rest of it… well, set so far in the future, it's obviously AU. I just made some educated guesses and threw in a dash of wishful thinking. I hope it was a satisfying ending and that y'all enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Thank you all for your reviews—they've been read and very much appreciated.**


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